a wife, Ana Viale had ticked every box quite neatly. Experienced in winemaking, running her own vineyard, a dutiful daughter, healthy and relatively young.
And, of course, loyalty. He’d read of her loyalty to her family, and her family’s vineyard, in that magazine article. Loyalty was a necessity, an absolute; he would not be betrayed again, not by those closest to him.
No, Anamaria Viale was the wife he wanted. The only wife he wanted.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought of the other reason—really, the main reason—he wished to marry at all. He needed an heir. God willing, Ana would provide him with one, and would keep his brother—treacherous Bernardo—from ever becoming Count, as his mother had so recently told him she wanted.
The conversation, as it always was with Constantia, the current Countess, had been laced with bitterness on both sides. She’d rung asking for money; had there ever been anything else she wanted from him?
‘I don’t know why you hoard all your money, Vittorio,’ she’d said a bit sulkily. ‘Who are you keeping it for?’
He’d been distracted by the business emails on his computer screen, her words penetrating only after a moment. ‘What do you mean?’
She’d sighed, the sound impatient and a bit contemptuous; it was a sound he remembered well from childhood, for it had punctuated nearly every conversation he’d had with his mother. ‘Only that you are getting on in years, my son,’ she had said, and he had heard the mocking note in her voice. ‘You’re thirty-seven. You are not likely to marry, are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he’d replied, and she’d laughed softly, the sound making the hair on the nape of his neck prickle.
‘But if you don’t marry, Vittorio, you can’t produce an heir. And then you know what happens, don’t you?’ She sighed again, the sound different this time, almost sad. ‘Bernardo becomes Count.’
He’d frozen then, his hand curled around the receiver, his eyes dark with memory and pain. That was what his mother had always wanted, what his brother had wanted. He’d known it for years, ever since they’d first tried to steal his inheritance from him, his father barely in the grave.
He didn’t forget.
And how could he have forgotten the importance of marriage, of children? He’d been so intent on improving Cazlevara Wines, of forgetting the unhappiness he knew waited for him back home. He’d never considered the future, his future. His heirs.
Now he did. He’d considered carefully, chosen his bride as he would a fine wine. Now he just needed to decide when to decant it.
Vittorio drummed his fingers against the steering wheel again and saw Ana slide him a wary glance. How to approach his chosen bride? She sat tensely, one hand clenched around the door handle as if she would escape the speeding car. The suit she wore looked like something pulled out of a convent’s charity box and it did nothing for her tall, generous figure. Not that there was something to be done for her figure, but Vittorio imagined that some decent clothes and make-up could go some way to improving his intended bride’s appearance.
His mouth twisted. What would Ana think if she knew he planned to marry her—and as soon as possible? Of course, any woman should be thrilled to become part of the Cazlevara dynasty, yet he felt instinctively that Ana Viale might balk. He knew from the other night at San Stefano Castle that she would not be fooled by his attempts to flatter or romance her, and why should she? God knew, the women he usually had on his arm or in his bed did not look or dress or even talk like Ana Viale. Yet he didn’t want to marry them. He wanted to marry Ana. It was a matter of expediency, of business.
And that, Vittorio decided, was how he would present the marriage to her. She appreciated plain speaking, and so he would speak as plainly as possible. The thought appealed to him. He wouldn’t have to waste time pretending to be attracted to her. Most women would enjoy a little flattery, but he knew now that it would only annoy Ana, perhaps even hurt her.
A tiny twinge of something close to guilt pierced his conscience. Would Ana want some kind of real marriage? Was she waiting for love?
With him it was impossible, and she needed to know that from the start. Surely a woman like her was not still holding out for love? She seemed too practical for